“Fiddlesticks! Tom Paine had more religion than all the clerics of Massachusetts rolled into one.” The young divine got to his feet, his thin face alight with enthusiasm. “Douglass goes to Rhode Island! I’ll take care of Garrison.” It was decided, and Douglass was one of the Abolitionists’ trio which invaded every town and corner of the little state. They were Stephen S. Foster of New Hampshire, Parker Pillsbury from Boston, and Frederick Douglass from some unspecified section of the slave world--two white and one black--young and strong and on fire with their purpose. The splendid vehemence of Foster, the weird and terrible denunciations of Pillsbury, and the mere presence of Douglass created a furor from one end of the state to the other. They were followed by noisy mobs, they were thrown out of taverns, they were pelted with eggs and rocks and foul words. But they kept right on talking--in schoolhouses and churches and halls, in market places, in warehouses, behind factories and on docks. Sometimes they were accompanied by Abby Kelly, who was later to become Stephen Foster’s wife. Her youth and simple Quaker beauty, combined with her wonderful earnestness, her large knowledge and great logical power, bore down opposition. She stilled the wildest turmoil. The people began to listen. They drew up a Freeman’s Constitution to challenge Thomas Dorr’s and called a huge mass meeting in Providence. On streamers and handbills distributed throughout the state, they listed “Frederick Douglass, Fugitive from Slavery,” as the principal speaker. Jack Haley saw the streamers when he reached Providence late in the evening. He heard talk of the meeting around the hostelry while he gulped down his supper. When he reached the crowded hall things were already under way. There was some confusion as he was pushing his way in. Someone on the floor seemed to be demanding the right to speak. “It’s Seth Luther!” whispered excited bystanders. “Thomas Dorr’s right-hand man.” “Go on, Seth, have your say!” called out a loud voice in the crowd. The young man on the platform motioned for silence. He nodded to the man standing in the aisle. “Speak, my friend!” he said. The man’s voice was harsh. “You philanthropists are moaning over the fate of Southern slaves. Go down there and help them! We here are concerned with equal rights for men, with the emancipation of white men, before we run out after helping blacks whether they are free or in slavery. You’re meddling with what doesn’t concern you!” There was some applause. There were boos and hisses, but the man sat down amid a murmur of approval from those near him.